It would be easy to pick something impulsively, to decide one post in thousands didn’t matter much. I don’t, though. I force myself to evaluate each of Brianna’s shots until finally I decide on one where I’m running back from the net, volleyball in hand. The sunset shines off the top of my dark blond ponytail, which is overdue for a color appointment to return it to a shiny yellow-gold I look tan, which is good—studying for finals turned my skin pale beige, but thanks to my mom’s genes, one or two days outside returned me to bronze. In the photo, I’m mid-laugh, my expression offering no hint of the effort these photos took. I look casual. Carefree.
Which people respond to, I’ve noticed. While they engage with my sports content, they love the unguarded humanness, the reminders I’m a person. It’s one principle I’ve learned on Instagram and found extends into real life—no one loves a princess who doesn’t make it look easy.
“This one,” I say. I hold out the phone to show Bri.
She doesn’t look to see the photo I’ve chosen. “You really don’t want to call Dean,” she comments, her brown eyes on me.
Just like I did in the photos, I put on a smile as I begin editing. “Thanks to your excellent photo taking, I don’t have to,” I say, willing my headache to remain manageable until I get home. I work steadily, warming up the muscles I’ve developed from years of doing this. First, I change the contrast, then play with the saturation to keep this photo consistent with the color profile on the rest of my feed. I write my caption, tagging the local clothing company.
When I’m about to hit post, my phone buzzes. It’s a text from my dad.
Remember we have to book flights for California tonight. I need to know what days you have practice.
Unexpectedly, the logistical reminder is exactly what I need right now. I let out a breath, immersing myself momentarily in the thought of Malibu, where my family goes for summer vacation every year.
The memory is enough to ease the pressure in my head. Crystal water. Soft sand. California sun. The trip coming up—three weeks in Malibu, between training and tournaments—will be my chance to unwind after the busiest year of my life.
I can’t wait.
Feeling renewed, I post the photo. I set my phone on the table, then reach for a fry, finally ready to enjoy my dinner.
My phone vibrates to life once more.
When I look down, my heart stops. It’s my dad. I read his message once, then over several times. Fighting past the zigzags in my vision, I start to hope the headache is making me see things.
The Freeman-Yus are getting into LA a day before us, so the earlier we can fly out the better.
“Crap,” I say quietly.
Bri pauses expectantly, fry midway to the ketchup. I show her my phone, which she reads expressionlessly.
“Kaylee,” she says calmly. “Tell me your dad means different Freeman-Yus.”
I wish I could.
I thought it would go without saying. I thought it was obvious our vacation plans would change this year from the tradition of our California trip every summer with my parents’ closest friends. Friends who they’ve known since college, who they settled down on the shore of Newport, Rhode Island, in part to be near—the Freeman-Yus: Terry Freeman, Darren Yu, their daughters, Jessie and Lucy, and their son, Dean.
Dean Freeman‑Yu. Dean, who I’ve known and vacationed with in Malibu since we were in diapers.
Dean, my very recent ex‑boyfriend.
“Tell me you’re not going on vacation with the guy you just dumped,” Bri prompts me.
I feel like I’m watching my Malibu escape go up in flames, their devouring heat licking my face. I shove my phone into my sweatshirt pocket.
“I absolutely am not,” I say.
Copyright © 2023 by Emily Wibberley. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
